In the Name of the Lady
by The Phoenix King
Summary: A Global Writing Contest 2010 submission. After a defeat against the Scourge in the Howling Fjord, Caedan Highever, knight of Stormwind, must earn his men's trust and quell his own doubts as the undead launch their counterattack.


**A/N:** This was my submission to this year's Blizzard Global Writing Contest, an attempt of mine to do some more military-oriented fantasy, a la Gaunt's Ghosts with swords., as well as investigate the differences and tensions between the various Alliance nations. Unfortunately, I didn't even make the honourable mentions, but it was a fun experience all the same. For the most part, this is the exact story I submitted to the contest, save for some grammatical and spelling fixes, but any and all comments and suggestions from you guys would be greatly appreciated! Thanks!

**In the Name of the Lady**

The command of Caedan Highever was but a few hours old when the five knights thundered south out of the battlezone, disturbing the innumerable flies and other insects that buzzed and crawled over the fallen like a living set of armour. Caedan had always assumed that Northrend's harsh climate would kill off such life, but even in the black oaks and grasslands of the Howling Fjord clouds of stinging black insects swarmed and writhed upon any dead flesh they encountered. They did not remain for long, of course. The dead did not lie still in Northrend, and soon the flies would search for others to feed upon. Some of his fellows whispered prayers against disease, and Caedan urged them on, pushing their tired horses to their breaking point.

They were a dispirited band; five of the Alliance's best warriors caught in the wake of disaster, faces downcast beneath their helms, their armour scuffed and dented by last night's fighting, the blue-and-gold lion tabard of Stormwind soiled with dirt and blood. These were proud men, five trained warriors, all dedicated to their King, the Light and the Alliance, but even the most stalwart men could be demoralized by defeat, and their defeat was considerable. Six hundred brave men of Stormwind had marched north, hoping to seize the northern passes that would let them penetrate deeper into the Lich King's domain. Now only the flotsam and jetsam of war remained.

The young knight-commander tried to ignore it, but the resentment and shame of his comrades was visible even behind their armour, and eventually he was forced to speak. "Our first priority must be to locate the King," the knight-commander declared, opening his visor so that his words would travel clearly. "He is the only man capable of turning this debacle around, and we must not leave him unsupported in such a time of woe."

"Won't be easy, my Lord," Eames spoke, as he always knew he would. He was the eldest of the knights, disciplined and pragmatic, and frequently served as the voice of reason and moderation. Eames was a powerful and well-built man, even for his age, only his greying beard and a lifetime's worth of battle scars signalling how truly old he was. "The army has been scattered, and I doubt even the king will be able to rally us soon. Besides, we've no idea where he has gone, or if he's even still alive."

"Then we must begin the search immediately," came his dismissal, marked with a stubborn refusal to accept that possibility. "His bodyguard will not have abandoned him, and neither must we."

"Caedan!" the older warrior exclaimed, and the knight-commander instinctively bristled at the use of his first name, as if the two were close friends and not superior and subordinate. "We are in no condition to be roaming around these damned forests on a wild goose chase! The horses are spent, and the Scourge is pushing hard from the north; they're probably in pursuit. You are asking us to head into the wilderness and potentially engage a superior foe when we have already lost a battle against them. I would strongly recommend you reconsider!"

The third knight eased up in his saddle and patted the horse's neck, a gesture Caedan noticed. "You have something to add, Daken?"

Daken of Goldshire shrugged. "I know the region, my lord, as much as any one of us does. The outpost at Hawke's Point is a few hours ride westwards; it ain't much, but they may have some remounts we could use to search for the king. Besides, it's the closest fortification in this part of the Fjord. The King or any other survivors might have gotten there already. If not Hawke's Point, then Westguard Keep; either way, we'll need to head west to the coast."

"Your concerns are noted, gentlemen, but my decision stands. We head east in search of King Varian!"

"Caedan..."

"You have said your peace, Eames, now be silent and obey, or I will have you arrested," Caedan snarled, anxious to assert his command. All was silent for a moment, save for the laboured breathing of the horses and the harsh wind that whistled through the dense forests to pluck at the banner. "Lord Kelinon appointed me to take command of our brotherhood, and I will not fail him. We have been defeated, brothers!" he hissed with a sudden vehemence, the anger and the shame boiling up. "We, _each of us_, swore an oath to our King that we would stand with him against their dark powers and bring the Lich King to justice once and for all. We have failed in that task, my friends. We have allowed ourselves to be driven from the field like a band of frightened squires, and we must make amends!"

Part of him knew he was being unfair, as both he and his men had fought hard that night, but an even greater part did not care. The other knights had stopped and removed their helms, giving him the chance to meet their worn-out gazes. Caedan continued to harangue them. "As for the danger, we have endured whatever this land has been able to throw at us thus far. We must not shirk it, or our duty."

"Are you certain of this course of action, my lord?" Eames asked with all the tact he had learned from a lifetime of soldiering. He had fought alongside Auduin Lothar to liberate Stormwind from the Horde in the Second War some twenty years past, and had been knighted on the field of battle at Tyr's Hand for his bravery. He was as fine and experienced a soldier as one would meet in the armies of humanity, but he was not in command here, and obedience to his superiors had been hammered home.

"I am," Caedan declared, challenging anyone to suggest otherwise.

"Then may the Light bless and aid you, my lord, for if we encounter the undead in force, I doubt anything else will have to the power to save us." The knights replaced their helms and urged their mounts east, heading back into the dark forests. Eames was the last to turn, waiting until the rest of the knights had passed before addressing his commander one last time. "My lord, the death of Lord Kelinon was not your fault. Nothing could be done to save him, and I only hope you realize that soon before you do something rash." He caught the livid expression on the knight-commander's face, cleared his throat as if to speak further, then turned to join the formation. Cursing the elder knight under his breath, Caedan joined them, trying to forget the sight of his old mentor dying at the hands of the dark horseman...

* * *

The piercing howl cut through the early morning calm, shocking the knights out of their weary reverie. "It came from the left, my lord!" shouted Vanderal, the youngest of their number, the son of an impoverished gentleman from Redridge who had just earned his spurs. He whirled towards the direction of the noise, nearly causing the horse's hooves to slip on the slick gravel path, his own bright blue eyes flitting from shadow to shadow. "It's another human!"

"We don't know that, Vanderal!" Caedan snapped, concern and hope warring in his heart. "We'll advance together or not at all. Raglon, take the lead."

Raglon, son and grandson of knights of Stormwind, nodded, advancing forward with lance lowered to avoid catching it on the low-hanging branches. It was colder here, the ground hard beneath the canopy of branches and matted with fallen pine needles that cracked and crunched with every step. The sky itself was hidden by a shroud of black clouds and the cloak of the branches that hung overhead, leaving the forest dark and the path obscured. There was no sign of life here; no presence of any Alliance soldiers, no Horde barbarians blundering throughout the undergrowth, not even any animals or birds to flit between the ancient trees. The forest was unnaturally still, and Caedan felt a chill crawl down his spine. Instinctively, he drew his sword, letting the cold steel gleam in the weak light as he tried to control his fear.

They found the bodies a few minutes later. Decorating the clearing were the bodies of a dozen Alliance soldiers, sprawled out and twisted in death, along with over a score of slain undead, easily distinguished by the fact they were already partially decomposed. A picket was set, while Caedan and Vanderal dismounted to examine the fallen, brushing away the flies that had gathered. Behind him, Eames spat in contempt. "You have something to say, Eames?"

"Look at them, my lord. They're Theramorites. Horde-lovers," the veteran knight announced, using the pejorative term for the citizens of the city-state. The white-and-gold anchor tabard of Theramore was evident on the bodies of the Alliance troops, and he kicked away the foot of the nearest body in disgust. "We shouldn't be wasting our time here, Caedan."

"You hate them." It was a statement, not a question.

Eames spat again. "Of course! My father and uncle died when the Horde conquered Stormwind during the First War, and I lost too many good friends and comrades reclaiming our lands back in the Second. Proudmoore tells us that the orcs and their kin have changed, redeemed themselves, but you can't just change your ways after committing such evils. Peace with the Horde! They're as bad as the Scourge, if not worse, and the people of Theramore are fools for trusting them and their witch-leader."

Caedan was somewhat shocked to hear Eames speak like this, the disciplined reserve of the older man apparently shattered at the sight of the dead soldiers' heraldry. "They are part of the Alliance, Eames, and Lady Proudmoore has the king's ear and respect."

At this, the elder soldier laughed. "She has his ear because she is one of the most powerful mages in Azeroth, nothing more. Nor would he ever permit the Horde to live, given a lack of other enemies. He recognizes the danger they pose to us, and understands what we'll need to do to stop them."

"Yet you would have us retreat, to turn back while his life is still in danger," Caedan remarked coldly.

"I'm attempting to be practical, my lord. We're no use to the king riding around blindly on tired horses. We should be moving on anyways."

"Permission to burn the dead, my lord?" Daken asked.

"Very well. Do we have any flint and kindling?"

Daken went to grab his saddlebag. "I'll have to check, my lord."

"Do so quickly. We must be away."

As Daken began rummaging for a spare flint, Caedan mused over the fate of the dead. Where had these men come from? Were they fugitives caught up in the riot along with the rest of Wrynn's army, or a patrol from one of the western garrisons? If they were the former, then it was possible that there were other survivors out there, including the King, and he had been right to insist an easterly route. But what of the undead who had overwhelmed these poor soldiers? It was no great army, for the knights would have seen and heard a host of any considerable size before they stumbled upon this macabre scene. In all likelihood, these undead had been part of a scouting force hunting down the scattered Alliance troops, or worse, the vanguard of a much larger army. In either event, the forests were too dangerous to remain for long. "Vanderal, Raglon, start piling up the bodies. Daken, where is that flint?"

"Right here, my lord!" Daken said, drawing it forth from his saddlebag. "If you could start breaking up some branches and gathering kindling, we mi-"

So focused was Daken on finding the necessary means to burn the bodies that he did not notice the dark figure dropping down from the trees behind him. A thin cord suddenly looped around his throat and pulled, cutting off his next words. The knight gave a strangled cry as the garrotte began to saw through the chainmail coif, and more shapes plunged down from the trees, ripping the other knights from their saddles. Caedan caught a glimpse of a single bulbous eye staring through a leather hood before the undead horror lunged at him, knocking him into the dirt.

"_Geists!_" Eames roared, shrugging off the undead that attacked him, bringing his warhammer to bear. With a savage cry, the veteran knight brought his weapon up in a vicious vertical arc, smashing the creatue's jaw in and sending it hurtling away. A second geist leapt from his left side, hoping to catch him off-guard, but Eames contemptuously smacked it away before bringing the hammer down on its skull.

The geist that struck Caeden loomed overhead, abnormally large hands clenched around his throat, throttling the life from him. The smell of festering rot and illness coming off the creature was gorge-inducing, while the single eye viewed his plight with a sort of clinical cruelty, strangling the knight much as the noose that still hung around its neck did in life. The creature gave a hideous scream, the exact one that had lured them to this charnel house in the first place, and the rage burst within him at falling for such a ploy. It was just like in the battle, when he had failed in his duties, and so many men had gone to their deaths...

Black spots flashing in his vision, Caedan doubled his efforts at escape, landing a solid punch on the side of the geist's head. The creature loosened its grip for a moment, and Caedan threw it away, seizing his fallen sword. The blade had been forged by a master blacksmith in Stormwind at the request of his father, and given to him on the day he was officially knighted. It was an honoured weapon and well worth the price, cleanly slicing the geist's hand off at the wrist before a swift thrust buried the blade in its chest. Behind him, the knight-commander could hear his men fighting the horrific undead, but paid them no heed, cleaving off the head of a second geist, noose and all.

_I will not fail! Not again!_ Caedan told himself, leaping into the fray with a vengeful roar. The geists lacked armour and could not hope to stand up to a heavily-armoured warrior in single combat, but they were exceptionally fast and attacked in unison, using their agility and numbers to try and bring the knights down. Caedan waded into their ranks, slashing through two of the undead threatening Vanderal, a third already brought down upon the younger knight's blade. Each movement of their swords sent blood splattering over the old trunks and knots of the wood, and the undergrowth was quickly becoming treacherous with blood and ichor. "In the name of the King, give them no quarter!" Caedan bellowed, smashing aside a geist with his shield even as he parried the attack of yet another.

At the other end of the clearing, Raglon fought, putting a lifetime or training and dedication to the task. He moved impossibly fast in full plate, silently cutting down the undead where they stood, his face an expressionless, stoic mask. The first geist died instantly, head parted from its shoulders. The second was impaled to the forest floor like a bug in a naturalist's collection, squirming and writhing beneath his boot. Then there were three attacking him, tearing into his armour, four, five, more and more until Raglon disappeared beneath a cloud of ripping bodies.

Daken had finally shaken off the geist garrotting him and put the beast down with a mighty blow. He was laughing over the fray as he killed, fighting, winning...

...falling, his jugular torn asunder by the undead that rose at his feet, the bodies of the Theramorites stirring with unnatural life and clawing at the knights.

Caedan was screaming uncontrollably now, howling his hatred at the undead while he continued to hack them down, even as their numbers swelled with the fallen. Eames was beside him now, the old knight begging his foes to come and be killed, and Raglon, standing like the walls of a fortress against the tide of darkness that threatened to overwhelm them. And Vanderal, a pup in a brotherhood of wolves, standing shoulder to shoulder with them and holding his ground. All brave men, all sacrificed to his arrogance and short-sightedness. _Light save me, I've done it again..._

And then the crossbow bolts screamed as they plummeted into the rear of the undead ranks, cutting down a dozen of the monsters before Caedan had time to blink. "Shields!" he commanded, and the remaining knights raised heavy shields over their heads as another volley of bolts landed, impacting metal, wood and flesh alike. Roars sounded in the wilderness and their rescuers emerged; two score soldiers in the livery of Theramore, brandishing long spears and kite shields, while other still cranked crossbows from within the wood. The Theramore soldiers moved as a single unit, forty spears thrusting into any undead that came within reach, forty shields forming an unbreakable defence, while the crossbowmen brought down any geist that attempted to outflank them. It was over in the space of a few moments, and the clearing was silent once again.

"Who commands here?" It was the leader of the Theramore host. The helm came off, and the women's cold green eyes examined the dirty and bloodstained Stormwinders. "Well, am I going to get an answer?"

Caedan stepped forward, whipping his sword up in salute. "I am Caedan Highever, commander of the Knights of Aurora and sworn servant of His Majesty, King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind. My thanks for your assistance, Miss..."

"_Captain._ Captain Leanna Cornewallis, Theramore Guard. I assume that you are survivors from last night's battle?"

"You are correct, Captain. We've been searching for the King ever since the retreat was ordered. We had hoped to find him, but instead we saw your countrymen. Were they on the same mission?"

"To an extent. We've been trying to locate missing companies from Wrynn's army ever since we received news of his defeat. This was one of our search parties, probably brought down by the enemy's advance scouts. But we don't have time to discuss this. We need to head back to Hawke's Point right now."

Eames snorted with contempt. "Why, is running straight into the bosom of Lady Proudmoore your plan of action whenever you encounter danger? Or do you just hope that firing crossbows into a melee solves all your problems?"

At least five swords were drawn, the famous loyalty of the soldiers of Theramore towards their leader all too clear. With a curt word, Cornewallis ordered restraint. "Desperate times do call for desperate measures, sir knight, and my men had direct line of sight on the enemy. As for your first comment, at the very least my sovereign doesn't lead good men straight into a Scourge ambush. Besides, haven't you seen what lies beyond us to the north?"

"No, we've been carrying out our duty," Caedan replied snidely.

"The Scourge host that defeated Wrynn's army is moving south as we speak, raising the dead and gathering strength as it goes. It travels fast and we don't have the strength to meet it in the open."

"The King..."

"Light damn your King! Don't you understand? Everything between here and the northern passes is lost to the Scourge. We must pull back and regroup while we still have a chance, and meet them on a ground of our choosing. You and your knights only managed to survive thanks to our help, and that was a small group of the undead. Unless we can get to the fort, we won't survive."

"You want us to retreat with you then?" Caedan asked.

"Aye, before it's too late. We'll head for Hawke's Point; we've been sending other forces to regroup there and it's a fortified position of sorts. We can hold out there if necessary." Cornewallis' tone was urgent, the voice of a woman who knew when a cause was lost, and as much as it hurt Caedan, she was correct. He had failed twice now, and the likelihood of finding the King was nonexistent.

Caedan gave the order. They burned the dead Daken where he fell, the bodies of a half-dozen geists strewn about him, and torched the rest of the corpses to ensure that the Scourge could not raise them. By a stroke of good fortune, their horses had survived, and the knights mounted swiftly. In the face of honour and pride, the four Knights of Aurora turned back. Their search had ended, and their retreat had truly begun.

* * *

It was noon by the time the combined force of Stormwind knights and Theramore infantry arrived at Hawke's Point, and the storm had broken over the fort, pounding the troops with a frigid rain and turning the path leading to the outpost into a quagmire. It was not a great castle or fortress in the manner of Valgarde or even Westguard Keep further south; it had been designed as a place of refuge where soldiers were billeted, horses maintained and supplies stored, all in relative safety. A wooden palisade wall had been constructed as the primary line of defence, further supported by a ditch filled with sharpened stakes facing outward from its base to deter scaling attempts. Wooden towers dotted the four corners of the fort, each proudly bearing the banner of Theramore, and the interior was filled with storehouses, a blacksmith, barracks and a humble church for the spiritual comfort of the troops. The outpost was a hive of noise and activity, with men and women from across the Alliance preparing for the battle to come. The knights dismounted as a soldier approached Cornewallis, saluting. "What news?" the Theramore Captain asked, brushing a strand of raven-black hair from her eyes.

"I've scouted north of the fort as you commanded, Captain. You were right; the Scourge army is heading for Hawke's Point." Like the majority of the Alliance troops stationed here, he wore the tabard of Theramore, and barely gave Caedan and his men a glance as he continued.

"Numbers?"

"At least a thousand, possibly more. They'll be within bowshot in the few next few hours."

Cornewallis cursed at the news. "Of course; things are never easy, are they? What's the status of the garrison?"

"It's about a hundred able-bodied fighters, Captain, including the forces you brought back with you. Hemli and his riflemen are watching the roads and we've sent a messenger south to find help, but there's been no word yet by any means. As well, some of the search parties haven't come back, and there have been few survivors from Wrynn's army still capable of fighting. Priestess Ishian was also wondering if you found any medicinal herbs she can use to help the wounded."

"We should have a few in our packs," Cornewallis said, moving to shrug hers off. "Sir Highever, do you or your men have any?"

"I might have a few," Vanderal exclaimed. The young knight had some rudimentary first aid skills, and occasionally kept some herbs on him to help treat the other knights.

"Excellent," said Cornewallis. "If you'd like to bring them down to Ishian, I'm sure she'll be grateful. As for you, we have stabling for your horses, and our blacksmith would be happy to check your gear before the undead arrive."

"Thought of everything, have you?" Eames remarked.

"That's my job as commander of this post. Now, sir Highever, I'd suggest that you and your men rest up and prepare while you still can, I'll have your orders for you shortly."

"Orders?" Caedan asked incredulously, before dismissing the knights. "Captain, I believe we should clarify the chain of command here. I am the ranking officer here, and a member of Stormwind's nobility. The right of leadership falls to me."

"This is an outpost of Theramore, my lord, defended by Theramore forces, and officially designated as the responsibility of Theramore on behalf of the Alliance. Not Stormwind. Besides, I have been the commander of this post for several months now. I know the defences better than anyone."

"And that gives you the right to disrespect my authority? To overstep your command, Captain?"

"My command is to protect Hawke's Point and all those within it, _Caedan_. I would be failing those duties if I gave them up to someone else, especially a hotheaded blueblood fool like you."

Caedan's face burned as red as his hair. "How dare you, Captain! You forget yourself! When the King returns, he'll be certain to remind you of your duties and obligations!"

Leanna whirled on him. "You dare to speak to me about duty and obligation? My father and uncle both fought in the Second War, and died at Blackrock Spire putting your King back on his throne. But where were you when the Scourge consumed Lordaeron and sent us fleeing across the sea? Where were you when the Legion tried to destroy the world? I saw no Stormwind banners at Mount Hyjal when we finally drove them back. An entire generation bled for you, and you abandoned us when we needed you most. _We owe you nothing_." The young woman tried to calm herself, ignoring Caedan's appalled stare. "The Scourge will be here in a few hours. I suggest you get ready for them." With that, she performed a smart about-face, leaving Caedan to muse about the coming storm and the situation he had found himself in.

* * *

The walls were abuzz with the sounds of running men and the clink of chainmail, the cranking of ballista and the cry of orders. For all his disdain of Theramore and its people, Eames had to admit that the Cornewallis woman knew her business. Hawke's Point was as well prepared as they could do, given the resources at hand. Her troops were disciplined and confident, going about their tasks efficiently, while their weapons were well-maintained despite the rain and coastal fog. Stepping aside to allow two crossbowmen pass, Eames looked over the gently rolling hills and plains to the north-east, envisioning the attack to come.

"Enjoyin' the view, human?" came the mocking query. It was one of the occupants of the tower, a grey-bearded dwarf clad in a green cloth poncho, a long hunting rifle cradled in his arms. "Won't be so pretty when the undead show up."

"And you are?" Eames asked, ignoring the jibe.

"Hemli Steelhand, late of Ironforge," the dwarf answered, taking care to shield the rifle's pan from the rain. "Let the rotting bastards come. We'll be ready for 'em. By the Titans, we will."

"So anxious to die then?"

"Don't mock me, human. There is an old debt of blood that must be repaid against the Lich King and his followers."

Eames nodded in understanding. "The Bronzebeard Expedition to Northrend, slaughtered by Arthas when he turned to evil."

Tears welled up in the old dwarf's eyes. "The Lich King took my boys, all three of 'em. So that's why we're here, human, me and my men. We'll find tha' bastard and put him down with hell's own fire! Look!" he demanded, thrusting his rifle into the knight's hands. "She's .60 calibre, and the longer barrel means she's more accurate at a great distance. She's been designed never to fail, and with any luck, I'll be able to test her out on Arthas himself. You and your lads just keep the bastards at a distance, alright?"

"She?" Eames asked. He had known men to name their swords, but he was unaware guns deserved such lavish attentions.

"Aye, Slender Sally. I treat her right, and she treats me right. Words to live by, human."

* * *

The draenei priestess accepted Vanderal's saddlebag, rummaging through its contents eagerly, even as the moans of the injured echoed through the dank church. Her priestly vestments had been soiled with blood and exhaustion was apparent in her solid blue eyes, but the appearance of the herbs seemed to revitalize her. "Goldclover, liferoot, tiger lily, yes, this will be very useful, thank you!" Ishian said empathetically. "We've been running low on various potions and poultices used to treat the injured, these will help ease the pressure somewhat."

"Happy to help, Priestess," Vanderal replied sincerely. Once a sanctuary for the men's spirits, the church had been converted to a field hospital, and over three score wounded had been crammed into the small space. The air was thick with the stench of blood and the moans of the dying, even as the overwhelmed priests and healers tried to cope with the sheer volume of casualties. Vanderal saw men with lost limbs, head wounds, even one man with a great sucking wound in his chest, and turned away, unnerved. It could just have easily been him on one of these cots, slowly dying, and the young knight steeled his resolve. "Priestess, may I offer my assistance to you? I have some experience with treating wounds, and you need the help."

Ishian cocked her head quizzically. "Do you not have other duties to attend to? I would hate for your commander to reprimand you because you were busy helping me."

"It won't be a problem, Priestess, I can assure you. Besides, if the undead breach the fort, then you will need someone to protect you." He paused, embarrassed by his own forwardness. "That is, if you will have me."

A dark blush spread over her blue skin, but she nodded regardless. "I appreciate the offer, good knight. Follow me, please."

* * *

The armourer finished sharpening Caedan's blade, testing the edge before returning it to the Stormwinder. Giving the man a silver piece in thanks, Caedan walked over to the gate, ignoring the hostile stares of the Theramorites as they waited for the call to arms. Raglon was there as well, his face still covered with the scars of the previous engagement. "All quiet, Raglon?"

"All quiet, my lord," the knight stated. "We're as ready as we'll ever be."

"Well, let's hope their messenger got through. This place is defensible, but not impenetrable. I'd feel better with some reinforcements, particularly Stormwind troops. We could definitely use some of them with us today."

"As opposed to Theramore, right, my lord?" Raglon probed.

Caedan growled in frustration. "If you have something to say, then say it, Raglon. Do not test my patience."

The two moved out of earshot of the Theramore troopers, then Raglon spoke. "Listen, my lord, I understand what you are going through, but you can't let the King's defeat affect your judgement. Lord Kelinon made you our commander because he trusted you to lead us well. I'm hoping he wasn't wrong."

The knight-commander stood there in silent anger. Raglon continued. "You didn't cause our defeat that night. If anyone, it was the King and the Scourge, you simply followed your orders. If we're going to survive, then you need to accept that, my lord, or you'll be no damned use to anyone!"

"What do you mean?"

Caedan turned to see Leanna standing behind him, a concerned expression on her face. "This is a private conversation, Captain. I'd ask you to depart."

"Like hell. If there's something you're not telling me, I need to know, for the sake of the troops!"

"Captain, you will be silent! Raglon, head up to the ramparts, I will discuss your insubordination later!"

"My lord!"

Caedan angrily pushed them away, mind whirling. He was a knight of Stormwind, a proud servant of the king! He would atone for his failures by himself, and he would not answer to outsiders and subordinates! He would...he would...

He would face his fears and admit his dishonour, and make his liege lord proud.

"I was responsible for Lord Kelinon's death in last night's battle. I was weak, and foolish, and too frightened to see the danger until it was too late. I hesitated, and as a result we were routed and my mentor was slain," he confessed, broken and ashamed.

And then the horns sounded, calling the men to arms. The storm had broken, and now the dying would begin.

* * *

Eyes of blue fire burned behind the helm of Duke Dethstrom as he observed the pitiful Alliance fort. With the pounding of thousands of feet, his army crested the hill, over a thousand ravenous undead warriors marching in unholy unison to crush the Lich King's enemies. The death knight's victory over Varian Wrynn's host had borne fruit, the ranks of his army swelled with the fallen soldiers of Stormwind. It was to be the first triumph of many. Hawke's Point would fall, and soon thereafter, all of the Howling Fjord would be purged of the living. The interlopers who had dared trespass within the Lich King's realm would be offered as tribute to Arthas, a fitting end for them. "Hawke's Point burns tonight," he declared, drawing his runeblade. "In the name of the Scourge, _leave no survivors!_"

The Scourge advanced, slowly crossing the several hundred metres of ground between themselves and the outpost. Dethstrom drew his runeblade, eagerly anticipating the violence to come, even as his attentions settled on the Theramore banners hanging from every tower. He had hoped that the witch Proudmoore would be present, but his magically-attuned senses didn't feel the presence of any mage, let alone one of Proudmoore's skill. A shame; he had been hoping to present the woman's still-beating heart to Arthas as a gift, but the obliteration of the outpost and the deaths of all present would satisify him for the moment. Raising the runeblade high, Dethstrom joined the attack.

* * *

"Steady! Hold firm!" Cornewallis ordered, appearing utterly confident. "Wait until you hear the order!"

Caedan was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. The battle that claimed Lord Kelinon's life had been sudden, a bitter ambush in darkness where the enemy had seemed to be everyone at once. This was far different. The Scourge host was marched inexorably for the east wall, likely trying to breach the gates and overwhelm the fort's defenders by sheer weight of numbers, while the dark rider that had slain Kelinon was at the fore. It was a hammerblow, ponderous and unstoppable, and Caedan prayed to the Light for the salvation of himself and his men. "Listen to the Captain! Stand firm!"

The majority of the Alliance defenders had taken position on the east wall to meet the assault, while smaller groups led by Eames and Raglon secured the north and south, respectively. At his request, Vanderal remained at the church to protect it from any undead that broke through the outer defences. The church would be their rally point if the walls were taken, and each man and woman had vowed to die before letting it fall to the Scourge.

The undead were closer now, the perfect cadence of their footfalls crumbling into a constant rolling thunder that shook the very earth itself. "Do you remember Mount Hyjal, friends?" Cornewallis asked, her voice cutting through the sounds of the enemy. "Do you remember how we held back the darkness, how we stopped the unstoppable? On that day, we fought to secure the future of our people, and today we do so again! We will not permit this evil to destroy all that we have accomplished, and we will not allow Theramore to suffer the fate of our beloved Lordaeron. In the name of the Lady!"

_"Theramore resists!_" came the refrain. The order was given, and over sixty crossbows fired, the bolts ripping into the undead. Slender Sally spoke, and fourteen additional rifles added their voice to hers, each shot felling a foe. Nearly forty of the enemy had been brought down in the first volley. Duke Dethstrom's black plate armour hadn't even been scratched.

"Reload and fire at will!" Cornewallis ordered, adding her own crossbow to the defence. Ragged volleys of the heavy bolts struck the undead with enough force to send the weaker ghouls and geists hurtling backwards, while the dwarven riflemen focused their efforts on bringing down the larger vrykuls and abominations that stormed towards the gate. The fort's ballista fired, bringing down more of the monsters, but they did not heed their losses, pushing forward under a hail of missiles. Geists bounded forward, leaping over the ditch and onto the palisade, and soon Caedan and the others were meeting the enemy with naked steel, cutting down the undead where they stood. The wings of the undead host suddenly split, attempting to storm the flanking walls, while more pushed for the main gate, deliberately throwing themselves into the ditch, filling it with their bodies and allowing more undead to clamber over them. "In the name of the Lady, open fire! _Open fire and give them hell!_"

* * *

"Keep pressure on the wound, Bartholomew," Ishian instructed, moving to the next patient. Seven patients had died from their injuries, despite her efforts, but these losses only served to strengthen her resolve. She would not have another die in her care. "Vanderal, do we have any healing salve left?"

"I'll check," the younger knight replied, throwing a shroud over the man with the major chest wound, the latest to pass on. "We might have run out though, we've been going through it pretty-" Whatever he was about to say died on his lips as the corpse suddenly moved, a stiff arm tossing aside the shroud. The dead man moaned, his voice joined by others, as the dead of Hawke's Point began to reanimate, unholy life instilled in them by the necromantic magics of the Scourge. Cursing, Vanderal moved swiftly, catching the first of the undead off-guard, his blade cleaving it in twain. Beside him, Ishian whispered a prayer to the Light, sending a lance of pure energy boiling into three more, utterly destroying them. "Ishian!"

Panting, the draenei woman propped herself up on the altar. "I won't be able to do that again," he gasped, weakened by the effort of using the Light as a weapon of war. "I'm sorry."

He was sorry too, sorry that he ever came to Northrend, sorry that he would be unable to protect the beautiful draenei for long against so many, sorry that most of the wounded here were bedridden and unable to protect themselves and would likely die when the walls were overrun. Swallowing all fear and regret, Vanderal attacked, the screams of the helpless wounded searing his brain as he drew back his sword...

* * *

The north wall was lost. Eames bellowed his defiance as he brought down ghoul after ghoul with his hammer, his grey beard caked with gore. "Come on, you scum! I want you!" he howled, kicking a geist off the wall while his hammer whistled in a brutal arc, snapping bones and breaking limbs. The other soldiers had either died or retreated, but Eames was oblivious to all of it, his mind focused utterly on the struggle to survive. "Come on! Taste the wrath of a son of Lothar!"

And then the ghouls were upon him, a massive press of them that overwhelmed the old knight and dragged him to the ground. "I hope you all choke!" Eames screamed, and then the ravenous mouths descended upon him.

* * *

Undead poured through the shattered gate, with the hulking abominations at the front. One last volley of bolts greeted them, bringing two of the monsters down, and then the Scourge slammed into the shield wall with an audible crash, ripping away at shields and armour. A score of undead fell instantly, shredded and impaled upon the Theramore spears, but more filled the gaps, a seething tide of destruction that threatened to shatter the defender's thin line. Caedan has lost track of the foes he had brought down, but continued to hold the line, his sword slicing through any of the undead that approached. "Stand firm! For the memory of Lordaeron, hold! _Theramore resists!_" Cornewallis bellowed, thrusting her spear into an abomination's gullet. The creature spasmed in its death throes, and the wooden shaft snapped like a twig.

And then the death knight was there, an armoured spectre of death that no man could stand against. His runeblade flashed, and three Theramorites fell, horribly mangled. Caedan stood there in shock, remembering his failure, remembering how the black-armoured demon had cut down Lord Kelinon from behind, how he had an opportunity to parry the blow but failed, thus causing Kelinon to die. How the old man had given command of the knights to him with his dying breath, telling him that he was proud and considered him like the son he never knew...

Hemli's roar interrupted Caedan's thoughts, as the dwarf fired, the bullet ricocheting off the death knight's armour. Drawing a hatchet from his belt, the dwarf charged, screaming his vengeance. Dethstrom casually parried the blow as if it was the handiwork of a child, riposting and driving the runeblade straight through him. Gathering the dark powers to him, Dethstrom unleashed them in a blast of eldritch energy, shattering the shield-wall and scattering men and arms alike. Caedan fell close to his feet, stunned, and the death knight turned his attentions to him. "I remember you, boy, as you doubtless remember me. Don't grieve for your master, you'll soon be joining him."

Caedan saw his opportunity and took it, stretching an exhausted arm for the prize. A mailed hand seized the wooden stock, and the rolled over into his back, driven the muzzle of Slender Sally into the death knight's neck. "For Kelinon!" he snarled, and pulled the trigger.

Hemli had warranted Slender Sally never to fail, and as this range, the old dwarf had been true to his word. The death knight's last thought was a single plea to his master before the bullet punched through his skull, causing the now-headless traitor to collapse like a puppet with its strings cut. "In the name of the Lady," Caedan gasped, before letting exhaustion claim him.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, the rain had ceased, allowing the victorious humans to burn the dead, much to the annoyance of the flies. Eames was dead, Raglon too, the latter having slain a vrykul in single combat before succumbing to his wounds. Of Hemli's platoon of fifteen, six had given their lives, their deeds remembered by their fellows over a keg of ale. Twenty-nine Theramore soldiers had also fallen, and Cornewallis made sure their names were recorded in the hopes that none might forget their sacrifice. Vanderal had been badly wounded and was being sent home, but he had found a devoted caretaker in Ishian, and they would not be parted soon.

Caedan stood at the mouth of the shattered gates, watching the Alliance reinforcements march past, colours blazing. The loss of Dethstrom had deprived the enemy of their controlling intelligence, and the arrival of aid had crushed the remaining undead before they could regroup elsewhere. It was a victory, but it did not feel like one.

"I take it you'll be leaving us now?" Cornewallis asked, walking up beside him.

"Yes. The King managed to make his way to Valgarde and has requested that I report to him. He says that there may be a place for me in his personnel guard."

"A promotion, then. Congratulations."

"I think I might turn it down. I'm a knight in the service of His Majesty, nothing more, nothing less." He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "I must apologize for my conduct earlier, Captain. You and your men are some of the finest soldiers I have known. Lady Proudmoore must be noble indeed to have earned the loyalty of warriors like yourselves."

"Thank you, sir Highever, it means a great deal to me. My own report will mention the Knights of Aurora fondly. You fought well, and my men and I owe you our lives. I won't forget that." She smiled then, infectious and unrestrained. "Should you ever come to Theramore, I'll leave a seat at the officer's mess open for you."

"And endure dining with Horde-lovers? Hardly," Caedan joked, swinging up to the saddle and bidding her farewell. There would be green hills and pastures new, and the realization that his honour was satisfied, his duty done.


End file.
